


Loyal Opposition

by cofax



Series: Monroe County [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, OFC - Freeform, outside pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 21:50:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cofax/pseuds/cofax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not everyone agrees with the Winchester algebra.  11,300 words.  Spoilers through Season 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loyal Opposition

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [](http://vee-fic.livejournal.com/profile)[**vee_fic**](http://vee-fic.livejournal.com/) and [](http://circadienne.livejournal.com/profile)[**circadienne**](http://circadienne.livejournal.com/) for beta and brainstorming. If you think you recognize Shon from [A Large Range of Possibilities](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11004), you are right.

Couple times a week, Shon would drive up to that parcel on the north side of Kornfelders' place and scout around under the high-tension lines. Checking for monsters, werewolves, or ghouls, just to be sure.

Often enough she'd find another car parked along the road, usually a truck or a car with empty bike racks on the top: the mountain-bikers loved the swooping trails and rough country under the power lines. She hated to see them there, because she couldn't carry the Remington openly out of season, and she was never comfortable here unarmed. Not to mention that one of these days one of those civilians was going to get et, as Canthy would have said, and then there would be hell to pay.

On a wet Tuesday in late October, though, it was a surprise to find a dirty black sedan filling her usual parking spot. She grunted, and Boris whuffled back from the passenger seat--he was the chattiest dog she'd ever known--as she pulled in further up the road.

Boris at her side and the shotgun over her shoulder, she walked casually back to the sedan, and from there into the woods. It had stopped raining about an hour ago, but the wet leaves dripped on her face and jacket, and mud slicked up in the soles of her boots. She'd have to hose Boris down before letting him in the house when she got home, which was always fun. But she'd learned better than to leave him behind, since the time last year when she met up with what was probably a Black Dog.

Now that had been an ugly job, and she was lucky to have just the one scar to show for it. She'd learned her lesson, though, which was one reason she was still hunting, nearly twenty years on. You didn't have to tell LaShondra Mason anything _twice_. So now she took Boris everywhere, and if Mike--yeah, Canthy's nephew, and hadn't she given Shon an earful when they started up--didn't like the way Boris stole the covers, that was just tough.

Shon slowed just as she came into the open space, because there was someone standing where the trail from the road petered out into a dozen narrow might-have-beens in the dying grass and pricker-bushes. It was a very tall, broad-shouldered white guy in a sopping cloth jacket, his wet dark hair plastered to the back of his head. Whoever he was, he'd been there for a while, and he was even bigger than Evan Battiste, who slung hash at Marie's Diner.

She hesitated, but, well. It was open land, Boris didn't seem worried, and there wasn't a man in the county she couldn't either take down or outrun. Or take down long enough to outrun. So Shon slapped her thigh to bring Boris closer in, and when the guy jerked and swung around, she said, "Hi," with a casual wave.

He wasn't a kid: looked like he was in his twenties, with that shaggy hair, but he was grubby, the way you get with too much travel and not enough hot water. Reminded her of some of the men on the street in Manchester, when she'd gone down to buy supplies she couldn't get locally. Men with no future, eyes dull and clothes of no color.

"Hey," he said, gaze flickering from her, to the shotgun, to Boris. "Wet day for pheasants."

"You never know," she replied, letting her left shoulder rise and fall. Boris settled down to sit on her boots, tail curled around Shon's heels like a big gray cat.

"True," said the guy, but his voice was flat. His hands were jammed in his pockets, the cloth bulging as if he had apples clutched in his fists. He started to turn away, then stopped, forehead wrinkling. "You, ah... you come here often?"

Shon snorted--she had to have a dozen years on him--and he winced, coloring. "Sorry, that wasn't--"

"I got it," she said, and lowered the shotgun so the barrel pointed at the ground. "I come here often enough, it's a good place for the dogs. Why?" That car back at the trailhead didn't have New Hampshire plates, as Shon recalled. And they were far off the tourist routes.

"You ever see anything weird?"

Now _that_ made her skin prickle. Twelve years Shon hunted with Canthy, and seven on her own now, and maybe five times in all those years had she met someone who knew the truth about the world. That things that went bump in the night could eat you as soon as look at you, and fire and salt and cold iron could save your life and maybe your soul. Even the ones who ought to know, cause they'd seen it--most of them learned to unsee it, too.

She knew there were other hunters around; Canthy had left her with half a dozen names and some email addresses. But Shon was too busy for that, and what were they gonna be able to help with, fifteen hundred miles away as most of them were. But, she thought, looking at the guy with an appraising eye, maybe they'd come to her.

"Yeah," she said, watching his face. "Seen a lot. Killed some of it, too."

He widened his eyes, shoulders stiffening. "Killed it?" When she shrugged, he cocked his head, looking at her with more considered attention. "You're a hunter," he finally pronounced, as if only his stating it would make it so.

"Was it the shotgun gave me away?" Shon asked dryly. "And yeah, you could call me that."

"Are you--" he dug a hand into his jeans pocket for a scrap of paper, "--Canthy Pirelli?"

The name knocked her off-balance; Shon couldn't hide the jerk of surprise. Funny how it hurt, that empty chair at the breakfast table, the sly humor that came out best over beers after a job. Shon still couldn't believe that tumors had accomplished what thirty years of hard hunts and fifty-odd years of harder winters never could. "Canthy died five years ago," Shon said, turning her head away to look at the browning leaves of the maples across from her. "I'm LaShondra Mason."

Boris whined; Canthy had chosen him from Morgan's last litter and loaded him into Shon's arms. "This one's yours," Canthy had said, three months before the end.

"Oh," said the guy. "That's too bad. That she's dead, I mean. I'm Sam Wakefield, Bobby Singer gave me her name."

Shon swallowed: she wasn't going to let it get to her, not in front of a stranger. "Why were you looking for her?" she asked instead.

"I'd like to learn more about this place, how it works." He gestured at the area before them, the damp shrubs and dying grasses, birch saplings burdened with a few withering yellow-brown leaves.

"How it _works_?" Shon stared. "Monsters show up here and cause trouble and I kill them if I can." What the hell?

"Uh-huh," he nodded. "But Bobby, he said he talked to your friend about it, and... well, where do they come _from_?"

Boris whined again. Shon looked down and said, "Recess!" Boris took off at a gallop, crashing through the brush. He'd circle back in a few minutes if he didn't find something he thought she needed to hear about. The wind picked up and when Shon looked up at the fast-moving clouds, a raindrop hit her in the eye. "That's a good question," she finally said. "Someplace bad, I guess. I've never seen nothing _good_ out here."

"Good," said the guy, with an eagerness in his voice that startled her. "I was hoping you'd say that."

*

 

Monroe County still didn't have a Starbucks, although they sold the whole beans at Heath's Grocery in town. The closest there was to one was Marie's on State Street, where you could get coffee regular or black, and, if you were feeling adventurous, Lipton's. Wakefield was already there when Shon walked in--no surprise given how fast he drove that dinosaur of a car--sitting in the rear booth with his back to the wall. Shon nodded to herself: Mike Pirelli's Reserve unit had been called up in '04 and he had come back in '06 with a bad knee and a worse attitude; and he wouldn't sit with his back to the door, either.

"Coffee and pie?" asked Marie from behind the counter as Shon passed, and Shon nodded. There was a time when Marie wouldn't serve her, much less smile, back when Shon had the only black face in the county. Things had changed since then: some for the worse, it was true. But some for the better, as well.

There was a coffee in front of Wakefield already, light beige like he'd poured in four or five of the little half-and-half containers on top of the milk Marie added unless you said otherwise. He looked pale against the green paint on the wall behind him, his eyes sunken. Under the fluorescents, Shon could see his eyes were light, a greeny-brown contrast with his dark hair and olive skin.

"The pie's good," she said, shrugging out of her jacket and piling it on the bench next to her. "You should try it." Most days she didn't indulge, the way her body'd started hanging onto calories like a famine was just around the corner, but she'd run Boris at dawn and it was turning cold outside. There would be frost by morning, and maybe snow by Halloween. It had happened before.

Wakefield shrugged as Marie brought Shon's coffee and a fat wedge of apple pie. "Would you like anything?" Marie asked, but he just shook his head, and she took herself off, with a pointed look at Shon.

Shon rolled her eyes, and looked back to see Wakefield watching, eyes narrowed. "Let me guess," he said, flicking his gaze towards the counter, where Marie was thumping unnecessary glassware. "You're dating her brother?" With some humor in his face, he might be cute; at the moment, he was just too intense to be comfortable. If this was what hunters were like, no wonder Canthy hadn't had much to do with them.

"Not quite," Shon admitted. Though everyone knew Mike, since he'd been the deputy chief of police in Monroe for three years and on the force for eight before that, ever since he came back from Iraq the first time. "So tell me again, what are you looking for?"

He nodded briskly. "I need a doorway," he said, turning his coffee cup in place, his gaze focused on a spot a dozen miles from the formica he was staring at. "There's someplace I need to go."

Shon took a bite of pie. The diner was pretty quiet, just Mike's partner Henri sitting at the counter and Marie bustling around the kitchen making cleaning-up noises. Wakefield's jaw worked and he turned his mug around again. Shon sighed: she really didn't know why she'd agreed to help when he asked her. Maybe he wasn't really a hunter, maybe he was just crazy. But he had Canthy's name, and the name Bobby Singer did ring a bell for Shon; Dub-Ell must have mentioned him at some point.

"Where do you need to go?" she asked, after swallowing.

He didn't get a chance to answer: instead he looked up sharply as the bell at the door jingled. Shon turned her head to see Mike approaching, unzipping his uniform parka. He nodded at Henri but kept coming, stopping at Shon's shoulder. "Boris is getting mud all over the back of the truck," Mike said, tugging softly at one of Shon's braids. When he let it go, the bead ticked softly against the others. "Took him out to Kornfelders' again?"

She shrugged, not willing to get into it. Mike knew there was something going on--he had to, he was the one who had taken her to Sisters of Providence after the Black Dog--but he'd never asked more than she was willing to tell. "He needed a good run," she said, and nodded across the table. "Mike, Sam Wakefield. Sam, Mike Pirelli."

"Nicetameetchya," said Mike, eyeing Wakefield with a placid face that Shon knew concealed a bone-deep skepticism. "That your Chevy out front? It's in great shape."

"Thanks," said Wakefield. "It was my dad's." His hands had dropped beneath the table, and while he smiled at the compliment, his shoulders had gone stiff under the grimy gray t-shirt.

"Sam was looking for Canthy," said Shon, trying to find some way to blunt the tension. "She knew his friend, ah--Bobby, right?"

"Bobby Singer," said Wakefield, with a nod. "He'll be sorry to hear of her death. He told me--" he hesitated, then continued, "--she was good people." Shon wondered exactly what Singer had had to say about Canthy, probably something about her New England stubbornness and reserve.

Mike's face eased a bit, his right hand dropping away from his belt. "Canthy was, well. There's no one else like her."

"Thank god," muttered Shon, just to be difficult, and was surprised to see a flash of recognition in Wakefield's face, as Mike chuckled.

"Well, hey, I got to do paperwork on that break-in at Barton's, so I'll see you later?" Mike took a step back, brown eyes flickering from Shon's face to Wakefield's. "Nice to meet you, Sam."

"Likewise," said Wakefield, and lifted his coffee cup to his lips as Mike headed for the door. "So," he added, when the doorbell jangled as Henri and Mike went out into the rain, "is he going to run my plates?"

Mike was a good guy, and a good cop, better than you'd think for a small town like Monroe. Shon poked her pie with the fork, appetite fading. "Why? You got something to hide?"

Wakefield shifted, his gaze going from the door to Shon and back again. "Hunters can't always stay on the right side of the law, you know. There's more out there than gumberoos and furry dinosaurs."

"Like?"

But he shrugged and ignored the question. "Can you tell me how long weird stuff has been happening out under those power lines? How far does the area extend past where I saw you?"

Shon sighed, sat back in her seat, and stared at him for a long moment. He didn't say anything, just met her eyes with a look of flat curiosity, giving nothing away. Fine, then. Besides, he was--apparently--one of the good guys, and information wasn't going to hurt anyone. "Marie, can I get another cup of coffee?"

 

*

 

After that first meeting, an hour of Wakefield picking her brains over cooling coffee, Shon didn't see him at all, but he was clearly still in town. He called her twice, once at 3 AM, to ask her for details about what he called "the well" out under the power lines. She suspected he was sleeping in his car, since Mike reported rousting him from the railroad overpass before dawn four days later.

"Guy's kind of a nut," Mike grumbled, flipping pancakes in the old farmhouse kitchen on Saturday morning a few days before Halloween. As predicted, the weather had turned cold, and there was a dusting of snow outside the window. "He's gonna be trouble."

"Has he done anything illegal?" Shon asked from the fridge, where she was looking for the jug of home-made maple syrup.

"Nothing worth charging him with." Mike looked positively disappointed about that. He'd run both the name and the plates, but nothing had come up on either. "Wish you'd stay clear of him," he added, but without heat. They gave each other space, it was why they worked as well as they did. She didn't ask about his cases, and he didn't ask about her special projects. Somehow he could tell that Wakefield fell into that category, so he mostly held his peace.

The pancakes were excellent: hot and studded with blueberries from the farm, berries that Shon had washed, dried and frozen back in July. How her mother would have laughed, to see LaShondra cooking down maple sap and baking her own bread, Shon who would eat nothing for breakfast but the brightest-colored cereals, all chemicals and sugar. But Theora Mason wasn't likely ever to know her youngest ran a farm in northern New Hampshire, not if Shon had anything to say about it.

Shon had just gotten up to clear the table when Mike's cell rang, the rat-tat-tat that meant a call from the station. "Pirelli," he answered, and then, "When? Uh-huh, okay, get with Henri and establish a perimeter. I'll be there in fifteen." When he tucked the phone back in his pocket, his face was creased with concern. Shon didn't ask, but he told her anyway. "Jan Parker's little boy is missing. Went out to make a snowman this morning and..."

There was nothing Shon could say to make that better, so she poured the last of the coffee into a travel mug and sent him off, feeling as useless as the women in those old movies. The Parkers lived on the edge of town, nowhere near the Kornfelders or the power lines, which made this likely a police matter, not a supernatural one.

But maybe it would be better to be sure. Shon piled the dishes in the sink and whistled for Boris.

 

*

 

Shon had been busy the last few days, selling the last of the previous winter's pottery to the few end-of-season tourists who found their way to the farm, and doing a long-delayed clearing-out of the shed behind the kennels. That had meant three runs to the county recycling center, and no time to take Boris up to the power lines.

When she came out of the woods into the open, she realized maybe that had been a mistake. Something was different, something more than the chill wind and the patchy unmelted snow clinging to the shady spots and the roots of the shrubs. Boris wouldn't run loose, but made anxious orbits around her, his hackles raised. Shotgun in hand, Shon paced uneasily into the field, watching carefully for something out of place. There was nothing, though: just the wind rattling the dead leaves, trails slick with mud and rotting vegetation, the cry of some late-departing geese overhead.

But her skin prickled, her nerves jumpy as she turned in a slow circle. She caught the whiff of a familiar odor in the air, redolent of the paper mill in Berlin: sulfur. She could see nothing, though; no evidence that anything was here other than herself and Boris, his whining nearly constant now.

Even the tracks in the mud looked old, she thought, crouching down in the lee of a huckleberry bush. Except... she looked closer: that was a very large boot-print. Bigger than hers by several inches; even bigger than Mike's. Maybe the right size for someone as tall as Sam Wakefield, though.

The mud had dried and crumbled in the last few days, the edges of the prints smeared and worn by later traffic, so Shon couldn't follow Wakefield's trail precisely. But as she moved south along the power lines, she spotted his prints on one side trail under the oaks west of the towers. When she'd gone a hundred yards without spotting them, she doubled back and picked him up again on the edge of a small cleared space, the spot a favorite of the Monroe High students on summer nights.

In the center of the clearing was a heap of blackened logs and cold grey ash, evidence of teenager parties fueled by boredom and skunked Molson swiped from basements across the county. About that dead bonfire was an area of ground trampled far more recently, though. As Shon squatted to look more closely at the prints, her eye caught a glimmer of something in the sunlight that wasn't snow, or a broken beer bottle. And then more, in a curving line. She wet her finger and picked up a grain to test, but she knew before it touched her tongue that Sam Wakefield had laid a salt line out here.

 

*

 

Canthy hadn't left much of a library. She never was one for book-research, even after they'd decided that they needed to know more about the hauntings and critter-attacks around the county. So she had a dozen or so hard-bound books, some of them moldy with age, on a shelf above her desk, and three file-folders full of newspaper clippings, notes from phone calls, and the occasional letter from one of her far-flung contacts. Happily, she'd gotten into the habit of printing out her email, because the power went out so often in the winter.

The sun was glaring through the living-room windows as Shon pawed through the files, teeth gritted. She'd tried calling Wakefield, three times: each time it just rang and rang, as if he didn't even have voicemail on his phone. Who didn't have voicemail? And what the hell was he up to, anyway?

Canthy's notes weren't anywhere near comprehensive, but on a stained scrap of graph paper, there was a scribbled mention of sulfur--"Demons: black eyes, smoke, sulfur. See rituale romanum." And then a name -- B. Singer, and a number. This must be the Bobby that Wakefield had mentioned; it was true, he had been in touch with Canthy at some point.

The question was, would Singer talk to Shon? Would he know what Wakefield was doing? What the sulfur meant?

Before she began to dial, her phone rang. "Shon, it's me. Do you know where your pal Sam is?" Mike's voice was clipped, anger just held back.

"No," she admitted. "And he's not exactly a pal, either. Why?"

Between Wakefield's behavior and the saltline, she knew something was off about him--but she was still surprised when Mike said, "Someone saw that black Chevy of his near the Parkers' place this morning. If he calls, get his location, I don't care how."

"I will," she said, and he hung up without saying another word. Son of a bitch. Sam Wakefield was looking less and less like an ally against the dangers of the unnatural.

It was clear that Mike and Shon would have to talk about what she did when she went out to the power lines. But first she was going to call this Bobby Singer.

 

*

 

It was more than twenty-four hours before Singer returned her call, hours full of anxiety and rumor, as the locals turned out in force to hunt for little Jordan Parker. There was no sign of Wakefield, not even at the power lines, nor anywhere else Shon associated with supernatural occurrences. He'd gone to ground so well that not even the combined sheriffs' departments of Monroe and Sunder counties could find him.

Shon was tramping through Bester's Woods on a straight line, ten yards from Marie on one side and Mike's cousin Francine on the other, when her cell rang. She fished it out of her pocket without stopping. "Miz Mason, this is Bobby Singer. I'm sorry I took so long to get back to ya."

Keeping her voice low, Shon circled around a patch of poison ivy and returned to her line. "You sent this Wakefield guy to me, Singer. And Canthy knew you, so I'll give you the benefit of the doubt."

There was a pause on the line. "There a reason I need that benefit, ma'am?"

"How likely is it that your pal Sam would kidnap a five-year-old kid, Singer? And why do I smell sulfur when I go looking for him?"

"You think he did _what_?" The shock in Singer's voice was undisguised, and Shon's shoulders loosened.

She dropped her voice even lower. "Jordan Parker went missing yesterday morning, and that old Chevy of his was seen nearby. What's he doing? Would he do that?"

Another long pause hung on the line. "Christ, I'm sorry, ma'am, but I don't know anymore. Where are you again?"

"Monroe, New Hampshire. And don't act so surprised: Wakefield says you sent him here."

The shadows were falling fast: they had maybe another hour of light left. It was Halloween night, and Jordan Parker wasn't going to be trick-or-treating this year. In fact, nobody was: in the aftermath of the kidnapping, the selectmen had cancelled it. Any kids out on the street, in costume or not, would be escorted home.

"He might have got your information from me, but I haven't talked to him in months." Which didn't actually answer Shon's question; perhaps Singer was slyer than she'd first thought.

On the other hand, he was the only source of information she had at the moment. "There's a spot out under the power lines here where a lot of creatures show up. Nasty shit: Black Dogs, last year three ghouls, that sort of thing. Wakefield's been out there a couple of times, and he picked my brains for everything I knew about it. But he wouldn't say why."

There was a heavy sigh through the speaker. "Shit."

Shon was coming near the end of her line: she'd have to cut this off before she rejoined the other searchers. "Tell me, man."

Singer's answer, when it came, was heavy and slow, burdened with reluctance and worry. "Your spot sounds like a doorway, maybe an honest-to-god Devil's Gate. And Sam wants to use it to go to Hell."

_Jesus._ "And Jordan?" But Shon was afraid she already knew the answer.

"I can't say for sure. _If_ Sam took him. . ." Singer hesitated. "I don't know. Could be just a coincidence. But if he did, that boy's either the bait to open the door, or he's the sacrifice to make it happen."

Shon had never met Jordan Parker: but for five years she'd traded his mother syrup for eggs and fresh tomatoes. She couldn't imagine looking Jan Parker in the eye, now, knowing what she knew. So she stopped in the shadow of the trees as the other searchers converged on the rendezvous point. They wouldn't find him this way.

She gripped the phone so hard her hand began to cramp. "How do I stop him?"

"Lots of holy water should do it," said Singer. "Stop the ritual, anyway."

"And if it doesn't?" Damn stuff only worked about half the time, as far as Shon could tell.

Singer sighed. "Do what you have to, but try not to kill him. He's one of the good guys."

"Then you sure have a fucked-up way of defining _good_, Singer," Shon said and snapped the phone closed. That crazy mother wasn't opening a gate to Hell on _her_ watch.

 

*

 

"So?" Mike came out of the bathroom, a smear of white toothpaste on his lip.

Shon shooed Boris out the door, knowing he'd sneak back in later, and they'd wake to shaggy gray and black hair all over the comforter. "What?" she asked, peeling her socks off and tossing them in the laundry basket. Her feet got hot at night, even now that the weather had turned cold.

But it wasn't fair to play ignorant, no matter how tired she was, so when Mike snorted, "You know, Shon," she nodded and sat down on the bed. She rubbed her eyes with her palms, then dropped her hands down to her lap. Picked at the drawstring on her pajama pants before looking up again.

"Remember that time I got cut up last year? And when Boris tangled with a bear up on Tumble Dick Mountain?" She looked straight at him, really _looking_, for once, at the olive skin and somber eyes, the way his hair was greying and needed to be cut. The lines around his mouth that he'd brought back from Iraq. She'd known him for fifteen years and they'd been lovers for six: if anyone was going to trust her without proof, it was Mike Pirelli.

"Yeah," he said, uncertainly, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He pulled back the covers and settled into bed, but left the light on. "What has this got to do with Wakefield and Jordan Parker?"

Jordan Parker was still missing. Sam Wakefield was still missing. Shon couldn't bring herself to watch the television or listen to the radio. Maybe if Mike knew the truth he could help find Wakefield, but Shon figured the chances were better he would just walk out the door.

"It wasn't a dog bite or a bear," she said. She pulled up the sleeve of her t-shirt to show the scar she'd carried since 1991, the year they'd learned that yeah, salt really was preferable to lead shot. "I got this from a ghoul that was going after schoolkids over in Dixville. Took three rounds of rocksalt from the 870 to take it down." When he didn't say anything, just knotted up his forehead, she tapped her right knee. "About ten years ago I wrenched this knee bad, was on crutches for a couple months. I said one of the dogs knocked me down. It wasn't. It was a poltergeist on the back porch at Wentworth's B&amp;B. We had to bless the place with holy water and sage seven nights running, and on the sixth night it got pissed off."

Mike leaned back against the headboard, his arms crossed against his chest. "So... you're a ghost-buster." His voice was flat, neither sincere nor incredulous. Withholding judgment.

"Other folks call us hunters. But, yeah."

"_Us_, you said. Canthy did this too?"

"She learned it from her mom and her uncle Al. She taught me." Hunting, dogs, sugaring--and even, in her reserved and reticent way, love. Five years gone and Shon still missed her every day. She let it show as she glared at Mike, but then Mike had loved Canthy too. Said she was the least crazy of all the Pirellis--but he might change his mind on that now.

He thought that over, eyes hooded, for a while. Long enough for Shon's feet to get cold on the old oak flooring, so she tucked them up underneath herself, pulling at the comforter to cover her. Finally he shrugged, dropping his arms. "Assuming--" assuming Shon wasn't lying or crazy, was what he meant, "--what's Wakefield got to do with it?"

"He's a hunter, too. But... there's a spot out behind Kornfelders', under the high-tension lines, and it's _weird_. Creatures show up there, stuff you've never seen before. Other things, too."

To her surprise, Mike was nodding. "We've found some bodies dumped out there. You're saying they maybe weren't dumped?"

"Maybe. Anyway, Wakefield, he wants something out there. Wants to open a door, a door to… somewhere. Somewhere bad."

"How?"

Canthy had always said not to sweat the theory, so long as they knew how to kill something. But here? They needed to know the whys and wherefores, and they had _shit_. Shon had camped out behind Kornfelders' place for the last thirty-six hours, and seen nothing. Heard nothing. Even the smell of sulfur was gone. "I don't know," she admitted.

"So what do you do now?"

She flopped back onto the bed, and stared at the ceiling. "Sleep for six hours and go back out there. I don't know what else I can do."

"Right." Mike took his cellphone off the nightstand. "Patrice, this is Mike. I need a cruiser out on Belknap Lane, off 197, you know the turnout where the kids go partying under the power lines? Someone saw Wakefield's old Chevy out there, but I didn't get the word until now. Yeah, I don't know, but I'll take anything. Yeah, yeah, I am. I'll see ya--yeah. Bye."

The phone clinked against his watch as he laid it down.

"You believe me." She hadn't really expected it. It was crazy, after all, if a kind of crazy she'd been living with for twenty years.

The bed dipped as he moved closer, and he tugged on one braid softly, so she turned her head to look at him. Upside-down, he was suddenly unfamiliar. But his voice was the same as always: gravelly and soft. "I don't _not_ believe you. It would explain a lot about my family history, I admit..."

"Crazy runs in the family?"

"Dunno about crazy, but--" he looked away, "--service does. One way or another."

Warmth swept through her. She reached up and tugged at his shoulder until he folded down next to her. "Love you," she said, and curled into him, pressing against him until he wrapped one arm around her and used the other to turn out the light.

 

*

 

Mike was out the door at dawn, pausing only to hug her briefly. "Keep in touch," he said, arms warm around her, and then he was gone. Shon fed the dogs, pulled on longjohns under fleece-lined jeans, and whistled Boris into the truck. It was clear but chilly, frost laced across her windshield and crackling under her boots.

On the way through town, she stopped at Marie's with her thermos for coffee and a couple of sandwiches; as she waited at the counter, two trucks went by with the seal of the Forest Service on their doors. "They're searching off the logging roads up Deer Ridge," said Marie, filling Shon's thermos. "That poor boy: he must be so cold."

Shon could only nod: _cold_ was the least of it--and the bleak look on Marie's face showed she knew it too. When Shon pulled out her wallet, Marie just waved her off. "Go find him," she said.

There wasn't a cruiser, or any other kind of car, at the turnout when Shon got to Belknap Lane. She pulled off, chewed on her lip a moment, and then pulled back onto the road. About half a mile up the way was a grown-over driveway leading to a house that was abandoned after the foundation was laid. Shon forced the truck thirty yards in, wincing at the branches scraping along its sides, and then pulled it into the shadow of two white pines.

She was taking a risk, she knew: if Wakefield showed up, and then ran, she wouldn't be able to chase him. But she was more worried he'd spot the car and disappear for good. And she had her cellphone and the 870 and Boris: she wasn't alone. Besides, chances were he wouldn't be back; it was just the only lead she had.

There was a blanket in the back of the truck, liberally covered with dog hair; Shon slung it over her shoulder and, whistling Boris to heel, went looking for a place to set up her watch.

Twigs and grass stiff with frost crackled under her feet as she struck cross-country towards the firepit where Wakefield had set his salt-line, Boris bounding around her and occasionally racing off at an angle. It was going to be a long day.

 

*

 

Wakefield didn't show until after dark, but sunset fell so early this late in the year, Shon was only beginning to think about eating the last of her sandwiches when she heard someone moving in the bushes. She'd looped Boris' line about the tree next to her, and put a hand on his muzzle to keep him silent as she peered into the darkness.

Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, so the sliver of moon above the horizon provided enough light for her to see Sam Wakefield push a branch aside and step into the clearing. He was little more than a tall, broad-shouldered shadow, but his arms were full and he was _here_, where he shouldn't be.

When she turned on the flashlight, he stopped in place, not moving. Shon pitched her voice clear and loud. "Put him down right there."

Wakefield stood in the flashlight's glare, his arms full of limp five-year-old; his hair was lank, his face dirty and scratched. Maybe Jordan had fought back--but if he had, he wasn't fighting now, the way his head lolled over Wakefield's arm. Sleeping or drugged, Shon guessed.

One-handed, Shon racked the shotgun; he twitched, but didn't let go of Jordan. The boy didn't move at all: drugged, then. "You heard me," she said. "Put him down and step away."

To her amazement, Wakefield shook his head. "No." He just stood there, holding the boy, brow furrowed. "I won't hurt him--I need him. You have to let me. It'll be okay."

"Jesus!" Shon snapped. "It's not going to be okay, because whatever it is, you're not going to do it!" And she propped the flashlight in the vee of a branch and took a step forward, wishing she'd brought the rifle instead of the shotgun. She couldn't take a shot without risking Jordan.

She hadn't figured on Wakefield being so _fast_. Big, she knew--but she hadn't expected quickness from someone a good foot taller than her. He had Jordan in both arms when he walked into the clearing: but between one breath and the next, Jordan was tucked under his left arm, face smashed against Wakefield's shirt, while with the other hand Wakefield held a .45 on her.

"Don't push me," he said, brow furrowed. "I've shot hunters before, you know. Hell, I shot my dad and my brother," he added, with a twisted smile.

"Your dad in the habit of taking five-year-olds hostage, too?" Shon asked sourly. Boris whined; she wondered how long it would take him to chew through the lead. Too long, probably. She'd never shot a _person_ before; she wasn't sure she wanted to start, and the boy was too close, anyway.

Wakefield took a smooth step sideways, keeping the gun on Shon, and put Jordan on the ground. "He's not a hostage," he said, from a crouch. He shrugged a backpack off his shoulder and onto the ground next to Jordan. As Shon turned to follow him, he swiveled, keeping the gun trained on her. "I just need him here, that's all. Just until I get the gate open."

"And then he gets eaten by whatever comes out of that gate? No deal."

One-handed, Wakefield opened the backpack and withdrew what looked like a handful of dried grass or weeds. But as Shon's words penetrated, he hesitated, closing his hand around the grass. "I guess--that wouldn't work, would it." He looked up at Shon. "You take him home after I open it, then." Flatly, as if the logic were obvious.

She cracked an astonished laugh in spite of herself. "Forgetting about the kidnapping?"

He snorted, the limp hair on his forehead fluttering, and tossed the grass into the cold firepit. "You really don't get it, do you?" When Shon just raised her eyebrows, he sank back on his haunches. "Look, I just--I have to get into Hell, and I can't get there without the gate, and I can't get the gate open without power, and to get the power I need the kid. I'm not going to hurt him, I swear." He looked down at Jordan and touched the boy's face. Shon didn't realize until he looked back up at her that she'd missed her shot. Damn it. "And then we'll come back, and the gate closes, and I'll take him home."

Shon remembered that Wakefield's eyes were lighter than you'd think, hazel in the daylight: from here, all she could see were dark pits, with little sharp glints where they reflected the dimming illumination of the flashlight.

"That's assuming you actually come back. From _Hell_." She couldn't believe she was listening to this. On the other hand, she'd killed a ghoul a mile from here six weeks ago. How was a gate to Hell weirder than that? "How does a five-year-old give you power?"

He hesitated. "I use him to call a demon. When it gets here, I bind it, and use its power to open the gate, so I can go through."

Jesus, he was serious. "Can stuff come out of the gate while you're gone? Haunts, ghosts, ghouls?" Her skin went cold. Things were bad enough already.

"Harpies, incubi, efrits, elementals." He shifted his weight. "More demons."

God almighty. He was insane. "You were gonna leave this kid here with god knows what, and an open gate to Hell--six thousand people live in this county, Wakefield! Are you insane?"

He shook his head, looking away from her. "I have to."

Shon leveled the shotgun. "I don't care. I'm not letting you do it."

Wakefield still had the .45 in one hand, while the other rested on his backpack. Jordan lay on his side a foot or so away, not far enough out of range for Shon's comfort, but she was pretty sure she couldn't afford to wait.

"Now put the gun--" she began to ask, and then stopped as Wakefield looked over her shoulder, his eyes widening.

"Oh, _fuck_."

She spun on her heel, stepping back and raising the 870, but keeping an eye on Wakefield. It wasn't a feint; there was a flashlight bobbing toward them, the beam of the light touching on Jordan still sleeping on his side, Shon, Wakefield, before flicking upwards. The face it illuminated looked ghastly, pale and horrific in the extreme light--until she recognized it and relaxed, letting the barrel of the shotgun sink towards the ground. It was Mike who strolled into the clearing, one hand resting on the butt of his pistol.

"Got tired of waiting for you to come home," Mike said easily, but his eyes didn't leave Wakefield. "Everything okay here?"

"Jordan's okay," Shon said, unsettled by his calm: she'd found both the lost child, and the man the entire county had been hunting for the last forty-eight hours. She opened her mouth to speak, and then Mike stepped up next to her, and before she had time to react, he had the shotgun out of her hands and pointed at _her_.

He looked completely calm, the shotgun in one hand and the flashlight in the other, beam fixed on Wakefield. "Trying to renege on our deal, boy? I don't think so." The voice was Mike's, but not the tone, not the oily way the words came out of his mouth. Not the way there wasn't any white in his eyes anymore. Shon stayed very still, cold crawling down her back like dripping water.

"That's not your boyfriend," said Wakefield unnecessarily. He stayed where he was, eyes locked on Mike's face. "That's the demon, Succorbenoth."

"And that's who?" Shon was strangely proud that her voice was even.

"I'm the guy who's going to blow your head off if you don't shut up," said the demon to Shon, in Mike's voice.

"Wasn't planning on reneging," said Wakefield cautiously. He stayed where he was, one hand in the dirt around the firepit and the other on the backpack. Jordan was curled on his side on the ground, almost unnoticeable in the uncertain light. "I was gonna su--call you as soon as I got things together."

"Right," sneered the demon. "Like I should wait for that? I've heard about you Winchesters. You only make deals when you think you can break them."

Wakefield's mouth tightened, and he shook his head. "I know better. Besides, if you know who I am, you know why I need your help." So not _Wakefield_, but _Winchester_. He met Mike's eyes evenly, then looked away, matching Shon's gaze with enough intensity that she could tell he was trying to tell her something.

"So let's get it going, then!" said the demon, not moving the shotgun from where it rested against Shon's jacket. "But I want to be paid first." He looked at the shadows next to Winchester, where Jordan was, and the hunger on his face raised the hairs on Shon's neck. Even without the other evidence, Shon would have known this wasn't her lover--he'd never looked like _that_ before.

"All right," said Winchester, shifting his weight to stand up--and Shon began to worry that maybe he _was_ going to give Jordan to the demon. Even though he'd said the boy was only bait, hadn't he?

The demon--Succor-something--shoved the flashlight into Shon's hands, commanding her, "Hold that on the kid, bitch," before stepping away from her, his eyes on Jordan. The shotgun, however, he kept pointed at Shon.

The flashlight was Mike's, from his cruiser, heavy and solid. It would make a good weapon, if Shon weren't eighteen inches away from the muzzle of her own Remington 870. Still, between that and the increased room to move, she might be able to do something--assuming she got the chance.

That chance came barely two seconds later.

With an enraged snarl, Boris exploded from the brush behind the demon, all of his hundred-twenty-pound weight cannoning into Mike's back. The ragged end of the leash he'd chewed through trailed behind him. Boris had been trained to the hunt, from a line of dogs Canthy had hunted with for thirty years; and yet Shon had never seen him so enraged. The snarl on his face exposed his canines clear to his gums, and his hackles were raised the entire length of his spine. He was barely recognizeable as the dog who shed long gray guard-hairs all over the sofa in the farmhouse.

The demon was taken completely by surprise. Knocked forward by Boris' attack, he put up his hands to break his fall, and the shotgun went flying. But he couldn't stop his fall completely--he ended up face-down in the dirt, Boris standing on his back as Shon scooped up the shotgun.

"Good dog!" said Winchester, and grabbing the flashlight, cracked it across the back of the demon's head. The demon slumped forward, chest flattening to the ground.

Shon got the shotgun settled, unsure where to point it--at Mike, or at Winchester. "Isn't he unconcious?" Shon asked, as Winchester pulled a length of cord from his backpack. She whistled Boris away, and he came to her side, hackles still raised and continuing to growl at an almost inaudible level.

"Not for long." Winchester began lashing the cord around Mike's wrists, muttering as he did so. Within two minutes Mike was trussed like one of Chief Shelton's Fourth of July pigs, and just in time, because as Winchester checked the last knot, Mike's body arched, rolled over, and sat up. There were scratches on his face and his eyes were still black.

"Don't bother," said Winchester, as the demon wrenched at his bonds, and then stilled, hissing with pain. "Those ropes are woven with silver and steel, and soaked with holy water. You're not getting out until I release you."

"What, no exorcism?" the demon challenged, and then smiled, flickering his tongue out to lick at the blood on his face. "But you still need me, don't you, Winchester? Daddy's little scholar, and you still don't know enough to get where you want to go. Bet you wish you'd taken that bitch up on her offer now, don't you?"

Winchester's face hardened. "Yeah, I need you. But I don't need you _whole_." Taking a flask from the backpack, he splashed the demon in the face. There was a hiss and the demon roared, writhing.

"What are you doing?" Shon stepped forward, holding the shotgun ready but not--yet--aiming it at anyone. "That's still Mike in there, isn't it?"

"For now," confirmed Winchester, his voice hard, then dropped to his knees and dug into the backpack again. This time he brought out a container of salt, and a plastic bag full of what looked like loose tea. "But I've seen a demon keep a corpse animated for months after the host dies. He's got no incentive to be nice to--" he hesitated, hands stilling on the plastic bag. When he spoke again, his voice had changed again, was the more sociable tone he'd used when they first met. "I'm sorry, I've forgotten your friend's name."

"Mike Pirelli," she said, and laid a hand on Boris' head. She could feel him still growling, the vibration thrumming through his skull and up her arm.

"Right," confirmed Winchester, and began to draw lines in the dirt with the salt, forming circles around the firepit and the demon. "Succorbenoth doesn't care if Mike lives or dies, so that gives him an advantage if he gets free."

Shon watched him, glancing occasionally at the demon, who sat hunched over his bonds in the center of the circle. It reminded her of something the demon had said. "What did he mean about an exorcism?"

There were now three lines of salt around them and the firepit; Winchester started drawing symbols in the dirt with the tea-leaves, or whatever they were. He didn't look up at her as he said, "Sometimes you can exorcise the demon, free the host. It's not a pleasant process."

"Sometimes?" The shotgun was cold in her hands. She didn't want to think about what Mike must be going through, trapped inside his own body--inside his own _mind_. Unable to move or speak, to do anything. He wouldn't mind an unpleasant process if it freed him.

Winchester looked up at her, and for a flicker of a second, _he_ looked like his eyes were black. Then he shifted his position, and it was just shadows, again. "The host doesn't always survive an exorcism. He'll be better off if we go through with the deal." He glanced quickly towards the demon, then jerked his head towards Jordan, still sleeping a few yards away. What was he trying to tell her? What couldn't he say while the demon was there, listening to everything?

Wait a minute--_go through with the deal_? "Oh, no you don't. Just because--"

She wasn't prepared for the blank determination in Winchester's face when he raised his head from the symbols he was drawing. "Yes, I do. Because if I don't, I won't free your boyfriend. And I'm his best chance--have _you_ ever performed an exorcism, Ms. Mason?"

_Fuck._

"It's better this way," continued Winchester, not even looking at her as he applied dabs of a dark ointment to his wrists and eyelids. "You can guard the gate, make sure nothing comes through while I'm gone."

"Better," repeated Shon, the word sour in her mouth.

If she shot Winchester down right now, she'd still have a demon on her hands, and she couldn't keep Mike bound indefinitely. How much damage could a demon do as a cop? Probably a lot. And the demon might kill her before she found a way to free Mike.

This was wrong. She looked down at Mike, trapped silent in his own flesh, and thought, despairing, _No._ If it were just Mike alone, he'd say shoot Winchester and be done with it--but it wasn't just Mike, or Jordan. It was six thousand people in Monroe County, and more after that. God damn it.

"Okay, we're set." Winchester squatted next to the firepit, a worn leather journal propped open on one knee and a lighter in his hand. "Once the gate's open, I'll need you to guard it. If I'm gone too long, you can shut it down--just douse the fire with the holy water."

He lit a curl of paper from his pocket and used it to light the tinder he'd layered under the stack of loose wood and dried herbs. Smoke curled upwards immediately, smelling more of incense and the musk of old books than of burning vegetation.

Shon pressed her lips together, squashing the rage. "How long is too long? And what about them?" She nodded to the demon and the child. "If you don't. . ."

"If I'm not back in two hours, I'm not coming. The salt lines should confine anything that comes through--keep the lines solid and you should be fine. There's more salt in the box, and there's a copy of the _Rituale Romanum_ in the journal, if you need it. You have salt rounds for the shotgun?"

When she nodded, he stood up, looming suddenly over the demon. "Right. Wish me luck!" he said with a flashing grin that transformed his face, and laying one hand on the demon's head, began to chant.

It wasn't a language Shon recognized: not Latin or any Romance language, nor Laotian, which she knew only from hearing it in the produce aisle at the grocery store. Whatever it was, it was rolling from Winchester's chest like thunder, full of hard consonants and syllables smeared into one another. It made the darkness feel heavier, somehow, the night colder.

As he spoke, a green light began to gather around his hand where it lay on Mike's hair, a light that brightened and flowed, hesitatingly, up Winchester's arm and across his chest. The demon shuddered, jerking as if trying to pull away, but Winchester's hand seemed glued to him. More and more light--energy, Shon realized--poured out of the demon and into Winchester, gathering at last around his right hand. It pulsed and burned, almost too bright for Shon to look at it: it was a fierce and glowing ball of green-white brilliance, about a foot across.

In the unearthly luminescence, Winchester's face looked harrowed, the tendons on his neck protruding as if he were pulling the power out of himself as well the demon. Sweat poured down his face, despite the frigid air, and the hand on the demon's head began to shake.

Boris was huddled against her, his growls turned into a low whine. Shon backed up: the skin on her arms was prickling. She didn't know what she'd expected, but this wasn't it. Eyes not leaving the tableau of Winchester-power-demon, she dropped down next to Jordan, putting a hand on the sleeping boy's arm--whether to reassure herself or protect him, she couldn't say.

Minutes passed--or no time at all. Just light, and Winchester's voice rolling around the clearing, and then he made a gesture, as if throwing a baseball. The light flew from his hand into the air, and just above the fire, in the exact center of the circle, it _splatted_. As if it were a water balloon hitting the ground, the ball of power exploded sideways, the green-white light flashing outwards into a brilliant vertical disk ten feet in diameter, hovering in the air above the fire.

Winchester stopped chanting. The sudden silence was as shocking as the gateway in the air.

There was a groan from the demon, who'd slumped over sideways, his head almost touching Winchester's boots. But Winchester ignored him, and checked the magazine on his .45 before slinging his backpack on.

He didn't even look at Shon, or Jordan, or the demon, before taking two long steps and diving through the glowing green circle.

"… luck," said Shon, into the silence.

 

*

 

The coffee in her thermos was long cold, but at least it was coffee. Shon swallowed it down and awkwardly closed the lid with one hand. She kept the shotgun in the other, never looking away from the gateway.

She'd forgotten to check her watch, but she figured it was about an hour since Winchester went through. How long would it take for Winchester to do whatever it was he meant to do? How long before something on the other side of that gate noticed it was there, and came exploring?

"You're screwed," croaked a voice, and Shon nearly jumped. The demon had been so silent, she'd thought it had passed out after the gate opened. "He's not coming back, you know."

She shrugged, putting a quieting hand on Boris's back, who had snarled when the demon spoke. "So what if he doesn't?"

"You don't really think you can close that gate, do you? Winchesters'll tell you anything to get you to do what they want. Takes _power_ to close that gate, and I'm the only one around here with any of that."

There was a ripple in the green surface of the gate; Shon settled her weight onto both feet, readying herself. But then nothing happened, and she eased back onto her heels. "Like I'm gonna listen to you?"

"Hey, I'm your only option, bitch--"

Something burst through the gate, something black and warped, about the size of Boris. Too many limbs on its body, red eyes in its head. Shon fired, pumped, fired again. It howled, hit the ground, and then she fired once more and it stopped moving.

"What the hell was that?" she demanded.

The demon laughed, its voice raw. "That's just the beginning. You think Winchester cares about you or any of your people? You let him open a gate to _Hell_." When he spoke again, his voice was wheedling, condescending in the way that always put Shon's back up. "You don't know what he is, do you?"

Shon wanted that carcass out of here, but it was too big, and no way was she dragging it across the salt lines. It would have to wait. "What do you mean?" What did this demon know, that she didn't? And just how long had it been, since Winchester went through? When should she think about closing this thing down?

"Sammy Winchester's not like you or your pal here," the demon said. "Sammy's not entirely human. He could be a power, Downstairs. A prince, if he wanted. Why should he come back here?"

_Shit._ Had Winchester lied? Was he coming back, or was Shon just going to be stuck here, defending an uncloseable doorway until finally she was overwhelmed by the evil flowing through?

"He seemed pretty human to me," she retorted. It was only an hour; she'd give him some more time. Winchester hadn't tried to hurt her, hadn't threatened her, not really.

He did kidnap Jordan, though. He'd cut a deal with this demon possessing Mike. Was blackmailing her into helping him.

Damn, damn, damn.

"Plenty of things _look_ human, kiddo," said the demon, and that was exactly Mike's voice, exactly Mike's phrasing, and just exactly too much. Shon swung around, laying the butt of the shotgun against his head so hard she knocked him over sideways.

"Shut up!" she snapped, and ignored him when he just laughed into the dirt. Winchester at least hadn't _possessed_ anyone.

Nobody was hurt yet. Not past fixing, anyway.

Ten minutes later there was another ripple in the gate. Shon lifted the shotgun, ready to fire as first one, then another figure came through. But the first one stumbled through the firepit towing the second behind him, and yelling, "Don't shoot, it's me!"

It was Winchester's voice, raw with exhaustion. He stumbled out of the firepit and dropped to his knees in the dirt, hand still locked around the forearm of a second man. The second man took three steps out of the gate and fell on his face in the dirt. Winchester rolled him over and revealed that he was naked as a jaybird, smeared with blood and soot, and out cold. "Dean!" said Winchester, shaking him by the shoulders, "Dean, we made it, you're out!"

Shon stared: he'd gone into Hell to get someone _out_? Whoever Dean was, he was in poor shape: skeletally-thin, and scored with burns, including vicious weals across his back and shoulders.

She would have liked to help--she had a blanket she could offer--but as she turned to look for it, she realized that the gate was still open. And the edges of the gate were warping and rippling, as if something too big for the opening had followed Winchester, and was trying to get through. "Look out!" she warned, and started shooting even before the surface of the gate was pierced by a long snake-like tentacle.

The next few minutes were never clear in her memory, later. Shon remembered firing, over and over, scrambling to reload with fingers that shook and fumbled. Swarms of tentacles emerged from the gate, soft like worms but with an unerring strength and drive. Once, one grabbed Boris: Shon freed him with a blast of salt shot at point-blank range.

Twice, something _flew_ out of the gate, and she managed both times to bring them down. Canthy would have been proud. The second time, she was sure she heard the demon yell, "Pull!" behind her, with a cackling laugh.

Winchester had found a machete somewhere, and he waded in close to the gate, boots nearly in the fire, hacking away at it. "We need to close it!" he shouted, over his shoulder. "Holy water! We need the holy water!"

There was holy water in Shon's pack, but Winchester couldn't reach it.

She heard the demon laugh. Damn it. She dodged across the clearing, firing madly, and jumped over the salt lines into the brush to where she'd left her supplies. The pack was closed tight: Shon yanked at the zipper of the pack one-handed until the flap opened and all of the equipment inside fell to the ground.

Flask in hand, she turned back into the clearing. Winchester was surrounded, swinging the machete with the slow drag of exhaustion. Shon shoved the flask into her pocket and fired twice, enough to make the creature retreat a little. She was running out of ammunition. Two more rounds and she'd have to reload, and she was pretty sure she only had four more after that.

An enormous tentacle, bigger than any of the rest, emerged from the gate. This one was _barbed_, the tip dark and glittering as if metallic. It struck at Winchester, who dodged it with a rough cry, exposing Dean behind him, flat on the ground and utterly vulnerable.

The tentacle pulled back, hesitated as if it had eyes and were searching for a target, and then coiled as if to strike again. Just as it began to lash forward, Shon yanked the holy water from her pocket, and dashed the flask into the fire.

There was a flash of light--this time bright white, with no green in it--a puff of rancid smoke, and then the gate was gone, as if it had never been there.

Shon blinked. The sudden closing of the gate had dropped the clearing into darkness, lit only by a few coals still glowing in the firepit. At some point the flashlights had gone out; Shon wasn't even sure where they were, anyway. "Is it gone?" she asked after a moment, as her eyes adjusted slowly.

"The gate's gone," gasped Winchester.

"Got that," said Shon. "I actually meant the snake-thing."

There was a pause, a shuffling sound, and then a thump, as of someone tripping and hitting the ground. "Well, most of it's gone," said Winchester. "Ow."

 

*

 

Anyone else would look absurd trying to carry a man the size of Dean Winchester--yeah, Sam's brother, which explained a _lot_, Shon thought--in his arms. But Sam Winchester was enormous, and Dean looked like he maybe weighed what Shon did, he was so skinny, so Winchester didn't have much trouble carrying him. Especially since Dean hadn't woken since they'd put out the remains of the fire and packed up their gear.

Winchester had bullied the demon into leaving Mike, and had only needed to read the first phrases of the exorcism ritual before Succorbenoth departed. Which was a sight Shon never wanted to see again. She wouldn't tell Mike what it looked like, the way his face and throat contorted as the demon spiralled into the midnight sky in a torrent of black dust. He didn't need to know that.

In any event, he was confused, but conscious, and steady enough to carry Jordan back to the road, while Shon lugged her flashlight, pack and weapons. It was about a quarter-mile in the dark, leading Mike and Winchester through the brush and the woods, and it gave her time to think.

"Okay," she said, when the glossy black paint of Winchester's Chevy came into view, and pumped the shotgun. "This is where you get off."

"What?" Winchester swiveled, arms still full of his brother's weight. A branch caught him in the face, and wet maple leaves clung to his jacket. "I need to get him to a hospital, make some calls--I don't know if he's--"

Shon shook her head. "There's a hospital down Route 3, in Lancaster. Figure it'll take you about forty minutes to get there."

"But--" Winchester's forehead crumpled. "I don't... Oh."

"Shon?" Mike chose that moment to let Jordan, who'd managed to sleep through everything, slide to the ground. In stark contrast to Jordan's peaceful rest, Mike looked baffled and frightened, and there was still blood on his face from when Winchester had clubbed him. Shon had known him for fifteen years, and she'd _never_ seen him look like that. Never seen him lost.

The rage climbed up her chest and wound itself around her throat until she could barely breathe. She put a hand on Mike's shoulder, supporting herself until she could trust herself to speak again. When she did speak, she made herself look at Winchester, but all she saw was Jordan's face, pressed against Mike's blood-smeared uniform pants.

"You take yourself and your demons and your family, that's so much more important than anyone else's family, and get out. Don't come back."

They didn't.

END


End file.
